


better than being over it

by pyladic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict, Duelling, Hurt/Comfort, It's All Very Russian, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Unintentional Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-04-28 21:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Anatole leaves for Petersburg. He doesn't leave alone.





	1. Chapter 1

Anatole doesn't remember making the conscious decision to go to Dolokhov. But somewhere between his banishment from Moscow and the storm of emotions swirling in his chest, he manages to pack a bag and get a troika, and then suddenly he's standing on Dolokhov's doorstep, teeth chattering and freezing cold. His coat is too thin, and if he doesn't get moving, he's going to freeze to death.

He hesitates. Maybe Dolokhov won't want to see him, after the mess he's gotten himself into. Maybe Dolokhov is asleep. Maybe he isn't home.

But before he can make the decision to flee, Dolokhov flings the door open. His hair is rumpled and he's wearing a ragged green dressing gown, and no shoes. Somehow, he still manages to look every inch the soldier. 

"What?" he snarls.

Anatole is frozen. He's certain that, before he got here, he planned some kind of speech, some kind of appeal to make to get Dolokhov on his side. But now, confronted with the reality of the situation, all coherent thoughts have vanished from his mind.

"I-- Well. I packed a bag," is all he can get out. 

Dolokhov narrows his eyes, but his posture relaxes slightly. "I'm sorry?"

Anatole hunches his shoulders. "I've been sent to St. Petersburg. My presence has been deemed...disreputable to the family."

"And what do you want me to do about that?" He isn't opening the door any farther. It isn't very encouraging. Dolokhov folds his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows, but for the life of him, Anatole can't think of anything to say. Words have never failed him before. Words are his friends; they do his bidding. But maybe he's used the last of them on Natasha.

Finally, Dolokhov sighs. "You're not going anywhere tonight, Tolya." He leans out of the door and grabs the handle of Anatole's trunk, ushering him in. "You can take the couch." Dolokhov sets the trunk down near the armrest of the couch, a tattered old thing with faded upholstery. He vanishes into another room for a moment, returning with a blanket and a pillow, which he then proceeds to fling at Anatole's head with an unnerving amount of relish.

Anatole manages to catch them before they hit him in the face. Still, they connect with a solid amount of force behind them. For a second, as Dolokhov walks away, he's flabbergasted. Then he recovers. "Are we not going to discuss it?"

"Go to sleep, Anatole," Dolokhov says, and shuts the door to his room behind him.

Well, then. That seems rather final. Anatole lets out a breath and sets down the blankets on the couch. He wrestles with the buttons of his wet jacket for longer than he cares to admit before he finally manages to get them undone and hang the coat on the back of a nearby chair. He shucks his boots off and sets them down, then settles onto the couch and pulls the blankets up around himself.

Anatole doesn't fall asleep for a considerable amount of time.

He awakens to Dolokhov shaking his shoulder. Anatole startles awake and squints against the morning light streaming in through the open windows, then his gaze fixes on Dolokhov's face. He's dressed for travel, a valise in one hand and one foot resting on a wooden trunk. He looks altogether too pleased with himself for Anatole's comfort.

Anatole pushes himself upright, altogether too aware of how his hair is rumpled and sticking up in odd directions. "Are you going somewhere?" he asks, wary.

Dolokhov doesn't smile, but somehow manages to exude an aura of smugness nonetheless. "I find that I could use a change of location." He pauses. "Perhaps St. Petersburg?" When Anatole doesn't reply, he sighs and hauls him to his feet by the elbow. "Put on your boots, the troika is waiting, and I still have to decide where I'm going to live."

There are moments when he's really, quite absurdly grateful for Dolokhov. 

It's at that moment that there's a clatter from another room. Dolokhov glances back over his shoulder. "Excuse me a moment," he says to Anatole, then heads to the other room, calling, "Matushka!" It's odd. Anatole wasn't even aware his mother was here. He fusses with his hair a little, trying to get it to lie obediently, but aware that it's probably not going to happen without his pomade and a comb, neither of which he's got on hand.

The door to the other room opens, and a little girl of about seven or eight runs in, tying a white ribbon on the end of one braid. "Fedya!" she yells, "your friend is here!"

There's another clatter from the other room, followed by the sound of something shattering. Anatole winces. Then he hears Dolokhov's voice, sounding distinctly annoyed. "Yes, I am aware, Annushka! Don't bother him."

Annushka giggles, glances around, and plops down on the sofa next to him. "Your hair looks awful," she informs him. "Is it meant to look like that?"

"No...?" It's apparently invitation enough for her to stand up on the cushion and maneuver herself so she's standing behind him, then start picking at his hair with tiny fingers. "What are you doing?" he asks. She's not exactly gentle, the tugging at his scalp causing pinpricks of pain, but he doesn't try to shake her off. The throbbing pain in his head from the drinking of the night before kind of prevents him from moving. 

"Mamulya taught me how to braid hair," she tells him. "Yours is too short for one braid, so I'm doing a bunch of little ones." She continues to braid, chattering on about he doesn't know what. So he just nods, and makes approving noises, all the while trying to ignore the pounding just behind his left eye. 

Finally, when he's just starting to wonder if Dolokhov is ever going to come back, the door to the other room slams open, and Dolokhov comes through, looking as if he's about to murder somebody on the spot. "Oh, what the--" Then he gets a good look at Anatole and freezes, his eyebrows nearly vanishing into his hair.

Anatole isn't a fool. He's got a vague idea of how he must look, sitting on a sofa while a child braids his hair into a veritable rat's nest, but he's really not got the will to care at the moment.

A muscle in Dolokhov's jaw jumps. It's the closest he ever comes to laughing. "Tolya," he says, with forced casualness, "What's happened to you?"

Annushka jumps down off the sofa. "I wasn't bothering him!" she says, before anyone can accuse her of anything. "He let me do his hair."

Anatole raises a hand. "That's technically true."

Dolokhov ruffles her hair. "Go on, go into the kitchen with Matushka." She sticks her tongue out at him, and disappears through the door, Dolokhov smiling fondly after her. Then he walks to the sofa and hauls Anatole up by the back of his collar. "The troika is waiting, and we've got a long ride ahead of us."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, a duel? now this is what I like!

Petersburg is much like Moscow. It's cold, and snowy, but the people don't look at him in the streets with recognition in their eyes. He feels almost invisible. It's unpleasant. After being the peacock of Moscow society, being completely unremarkable is possibly the worst thing he could imagine.

Well. Perhaps except for being rent limb from limb by Marya Dmitrievna. Anatole supposes he should be grateful he's not looking that option in the face.

Dolokhov (and Anatole isn't sure where he gets the money, and has no intention of asking) finds a little apartment in one of the middle class neighborhoods, and Anatole never really properly asks if he can move in, nor does Dolokhov tell him he can, but it just sort of happens. He unpacks what few belongings he'd managed to bring with him from Moscow and moved them into the spare room (he's not entirely self centered, no matter what his family might say) and just gets on with life.

It isn't easy. He has no idea what to do with himself, now that he knows no one, and Dolokhov, who he supposes he's grateful for, vanishes for hours on end, at all times of the day and night. His comings and goings are impossible to predict, and Anatole has nothing much to do except wait around for him to return, and drink, and brood on things he can't change. It's enough to drive a man stir crazy, and, well, Anatole has never been one given to moderating his emotions.

He's lying on his back on the sofa, arms folded over his chest and brooding, when the thought occurs to him: why should he wait around? Dolokhov hardly speaks to him lately, hardly seems to know what to do with him anymore. Whenever he sees Anatole, he just looks puzzled, and it's driving him mad, to be so superfluous.

Anatole scowls up at the ceiling. He hates feeling unneeded, hates feeling like so much unwanted baggage. What is he supposed to do with himself? What would he normally do with himself? The answer to that is easy. Go out, drink, and dance, and charm pretty women. He doesn't need anyone to do that. Dolokhov, for all that they've been...something, not lovers, but not friends, doesn't get to have an opinion on the matter. He can just go and stick that in his craw. 

He gets to his feet and straightens his clothes meticulously, still scowling all the while. So maybe he and Dolokhov have been ... closer than it's entirely proper for two gentleman to be in the past. Maybe there have been a few moments where he'd thought they'd finally take the plunge and do something about it, but it had never happened. And maybe some of the onus for that was on him -- No. Wait. Dolokhov had had as many opportunities to do something about this...thing between them, and he hadn't. So he didn't get the right to just drag Anatole with him to Petersburg, and then hardly speak to him for days on end!

Anatole tugs on his coat and goes out the door. Somewhere, surely, somewhere in this godforsaken city, there's be someone out there who'll pay attention to him. He's still Anatole Kuragin, he still has his name. Surely that still matters.

***

It doesn't take long to find a club, and it doesn't take much longer than that before he's seated at the far corner of the bar, two shots of vodka down and a third sitting in front of him. The drinking hadn't helped his petulance, far from it. Anatole scowls into the bottom of his glass. Why wasn't this changing anything? This was what he did when he wanted a bit of fun, so why didn't he feel better?

He glances up at the sound of a small group coming in the door. Perhaps there would be some pretty women there, and he could finally get his evening back on track. But it's a small company of soldiers, talking loudly to each other. Anatole looks back down at his glass and rolls his eyes. Men are nice, certainly, but these men look particularly boorish. Not his type at all.

They approach the bar, and their leader flags down the bartender to order. Anatole's disdain only grows. Tequila? What kind of Russians are they? The last man, still looking out the door, doesn't seem to see them, and the leader calls out to him. "Bolkonsky!"

Anatole's blood goes cold. Christ. Of all the bars in this godforsaken town, he has to walk into the same one as Andrey Bolkonsky. Perfect. He hunches lower, bending over his glass, in the hopes he won't be noticed. Maybe, he thinks wildly, it's a completely different Bolkonsky. It's a common enough name, and besides, what would he even be doing in Petersburg?

The man by the door turns, and Anatole recognizes his face instantly. It's Andrey. He goes to the bar, standing next to Anatole, but doesn't look at his face, for which Anatole is obscenely grateful, and orders vodka, for which Anatole can't help but be a little relieved. He doesn't think he could bear to have failed at seducing the fiancee of a man who drinks tequila. Still, he can't help but stare.

"Can I help you?" Bolkonsky asks, in that same, cold, dry, voice of his. Damn. He's noticed Anatole staring, but perhaps he won't recognize him. It's the only hope he has left. Distractedly, Anatole wishes he'd stayed at home.

He turns his face farther away from Bolkonsky and drains his glass. "No, actually, I was just going." It's a coward's move, but then, he's never had any grand aspirations of bravery. Anatole stands, tucking his face into the collar of his coat, but it's too late. There's a hand on his shoulder, shoving, and he stumbles back a step.

"Kuragin?" Andrey exclaims, and takes a breath to collect himself. A moment later, the mask of dry nonchalance is back, but there's a tightly controlled fury beneath it. "What on earth are you doing here?" Anatole opens his mouth to reply, to try and make excuses, but a cloud crosses Andrey's face, and he barrels on. "You wretch," he spits, shaking Anatole's shoulder. "You scoundrel, blackguard! Luring a well raised girl into your wretchedness! Is it not enough that you carry on with women like your sister?" And, oh, the ambiguity, the double meaning there, is a little insulting. Anatole feels something twist in the pit of his stomach, a tiny of flame of anger lighting there.

"At least I can get a woman at all," he says, the words coming out a snarl, aimed to hit where it will hurt the most. It's the vodka, he thinks, the vodka, and the strain of the last few weeks making him do this. If he thinks anything else he might have to take responsibility for something, and that's the last thing he wants. This is all, he think stubbornly, something happening to him. "How long were you gone before she came to me, Bolkonsky? How long?"

Andrey laughs, harsh and bitter, and takes a step closer, so close he could reach right up and -- Anatole shudders to think of it, but he's in too deep now, he can't back down. "You are," Andrey says, "possibly the lowest excuse for a human being I have ever laid eyes on. You aren't worth the clothes on your back or the ground you walk on. You're a disgrace to your name. If I killed you this moment, there isn't a person alive who wouldn't think I was doing the world a service."

Anatole sees red. Face going white with fury, he digs through his pocket for his glove and throws it down on the bar with a loud crack of leather against wood. "Pistols," he says tightly, barely able to keep his voice under control. "Dawn. The Chernaya River. Bring a second and a doctor."

Andrey's mouth curls into a smile, and, slowly, he picks up the glove, raising it to Anatole's face. He moves as if to hit him with it, and Anatole can't help but flinch. He hates himself for it.

The smile widens, and turns ugly, and Andrey pockets the glove. "Oh, I'll be there," he says, stepping back towards the door. "Back out, Kuragin, and I'll tell the whole world what you are." With that, he's gone, his friends filing out after him, and the club goes silent, all eyes on Anatole. 

Anatole ducks his head, the sudden realization of what has to happen settling like a bullet in the pit of his stomach. His hands tremble, so he clenches them into fists and tries desperately to steady his breathing. What has he done?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shot by a fool?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gun violence and graphic injury

Anatole gets back to the apartment in the middle of the night, nerves fraying and filled with a restlessness he can't shake, and paces. It's all he can think to do. What had he been thinking? He's hardly held a gun in his life, and he's going to go up against Andrey Bolkonsky, a veritable war hero? He hadn't meant to do it. The things Bolkonsky had said, it had set his gut roiling, and he'd never been terribly good at controlling his emotions in the first place. Even now, he can feel himself spiraling into a panic he won't recover from any time soon.

Dolokhov still isn't home. Christ, what is he going to do? Anatole sinks down onto the sofa, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes so hard he sees stars, and lets out a shaky breath. Think, he tells himself, you've got to think if you want to get through this. What's the first thing to be done?

A second. He needs a second. Dolokhov is the only obvious choice, and he isn't here. There's no telling when he'll be back, or if he'll even want to help. Negotiating his way out of this one is an impossibility. He won't apologize to Bolkonsky. His honor demands satisfaction. Well. If he has no plans to apologize, why should he need a second?

What's next? The time and place, he's provided for. The Chernaya at dawn, and Bolkonsky will bring the doctor. Anatole's breath hitches, and he hopes against hope the doctor will go home without opening his case. Pistols -- Pistols. He goes to Dolokhov's room, hesitating outside the door for a moment. It's where the pistols are, he knows, but something about going in there uninvited feels wrong.

He steels himself and pushes the door open. It's the first time he's been inside, and it's ironic, really, that the first time it happens is without Dolokhov. Anatole glances around the small room, almost stark in its bareness, everything neatly put away in its proper place. There's a military precision about it, which he supposes makes sense. He realizes with a start that it's smaller than his own room, which is puzzling. It's Dolokhov's apartment. Why wouldn't he take the larger room?

Dismissing the thought, Anatole goes to the dresser and rummages through the top drawer, pulling out Dolokhov's dueling pistols. They're plain things, just the bare essential, with plain wooden grips. He turns them over in his hands, taking stock of the weight, and notes a carving on the butt. Anatole peers at it, a tiny flower etched into the wood. In spite of his fear, Anatole can't help but smile a little at it. Who would have thought?

He takes the pistols back to the tiny parlor and sets them down on the couch, and thinks. What's next? His mouth goes dry. He knows what comes next.

Two years ago, his cousin Ilya had been challenged to a duel. Everyone had counseled him to make peace. The opponent, it was said, was the best duelist in all of Moscow, and had no notion of honor. And they'd all thought they'd convinced Ilya not to go, to back out of it.

They'd found the letter the next morning, in Ilya's hand, cramped and nervous, explaining that he'd had to defend their family honor, that he'd gone anyway. His mother had screamed when she read it, loud enough to wake the house, and Ilya never came home.

A note. He has to write a note. Anatole swallows hard and goes to get a pen and paper, and sits back down heavily on the couch. He stares down at the paper, paralyzed. What is he supposed to say?

_Dolokhov,_ he starts, and chews on the end of the pen. "Merde," Anatole mutters, and bends over to write. 

_As it happens, dragging me off to Petersburg was not enough to keep me out of trouble. I've challenged Andrey Bolkonsky to a duel in the morning, and in your absence, I don't have a second to arrange the damned thing for me._

Anatole pauses. It's not terrible, if a bit conversational. He could be dead in the morning, he realizes, with a start. He could very well be dead. He feels the panic rising again. He doesn't want to die. Christ, he should have never started this thing in the first place -- !

No. No. He's going to get it done with, and he's going to be perfectly alright, and then he can get on with his life. Deep down, he's aware of how foolishly optimistic the thought is, but he can't bring himself to accept any alternatives. Anatole takes a sharp breath and turns to the paper again.

_If for any reason I don't come back_ \-- and that's a tactful way of putting it, he thinks -- _please tell my sister what's happened and get on with your life. Don't waste time on me. My family will arrange my_ \-- he pauses and scratches out the last word, _matters_.

Anatole signs it with a flourish he certainly doesn't feel any enthusiasm for, and sets it on the kitchen table, where it will be easily visible whenever Dolokhov shows his face here. Where is he, Anatole wonders bitterly, going back to fetch the dueling pistols. It's just like him to vanish just when he's needed most.

He glances up at the clock. It's close to 5. No point in trying to sleep now, and while he could use a drink, he's still getting over the vodka from earlier. and it doesn't feel wise to walk into a duel he's already bound to lose drunk. Anatole bounces up and down on the balls of his feet a few times, and fiddles with the tiny carving on the butt of the pistol. He might as well go early, get a feel for the terrain. Mind made up, he buttons up his coat and starts for the door, the panic having settled into a deep seated dread.

Dolokhov isn't coming, he reminds himself. No one is. For perhaps the first time in his life, he's entirely alone.

***

He waits for Andrey in a small park just off the Chernaya river, and paces up and down the wrought iron fence as he waits. The morning is cold and clear, with just a bit of mist to obscure his view of anyone coming from far off. The park itself is quite pretty, the mist shrouding the trees and making them appear ghostly, their branches bare, although the snow has almost gone. It's not, Anatole thinks, a bad place to die.

He doesn't know that he's going to die, of course. That's the one reassuring thing he has left. But it's good to remember the possibility of it. He might die. The thought of it is making him feel vaguely ill. Anatole stops short and leans up against the post, taking deep breaths. He could die. He could die, and he could never see Dolokhov, or his sister, or anyone, ever again.

There's the faint sound of wheels clattering against the cobblestones, and he straightens up, immediately on high alert. A troika rolls to halt a little ways away, and Bolkonsky emerges, looking perfectly composed, damn him. Behind him are two other men, presumably his second, and the doctor, carrying a small, compact leather case. But then another man gets out of the carriage, one of his friends from the club. What is he doing here? Spectating?

Anatole swallows hard and starts towards them, throat suddenly going dry. He'd barely made his peace with the situation conceptually, and now to be confronted with the reality of it? It's not pleasant. He comes to a halt in front of Bolkonsky, who looks him up and down like he's taking Anatole's measure, and isn't very impressed with what he sees. Anatole is well aware he must look like hell, after spending the whole night awake and fretting, but the man could at least have the courtesy to pretend not to notice.

"Kuragin," he says, curt and dismissive. How many times has he done this, Anatole wonders?

"Bolkonsky." Anatole nods at the other two. "Gentlemen." They don't make eye contact. Bastards. In the distance, he can hear faintly the sound of another troika clattering down the street, this one at a much faster pace. Anatole frowns. Who else would be coming?

"Are we expecting anyone else?" he asks, glancing up the road, where the troika clatters to a halt. The door swings open, but he turns back to Andrey before he can see who emerges from it.

Andrey looks at the troika, then back at him. "You're telling me he isn't with you?"

Anatole shakes his head. No one is coming for him.

"Where's your second?"

He winces, but before he can open his mouth to tell Andrey he doesn't have one (a shame in itself, he thinks bitterly) he's interrupted by the sound of footsteps running across the cobblestones towards them, and an unexpected voice. "I'm his second."

Anatole turns. Dolokhov is, inexplicably, there, a few feet behind them, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, the top buttons of his uniform unbuttoned, and his hair mussed in the early morning breeze. It makes no sense, Anatole thinks, that he could be here, as his heart leaps into his throat for reasons he doesn't dare to anatomize. 

"Is he?" Andrey sounds nonplussed, but not necessarily displeased. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Go and confer with your second, and I'll do the same." He makes a short bow, which Anatole takes as his signal to go. He hardly has time to move before Dolokhov is dragging him off a short distance away, tugging him off balance.

"What were you thinking?" he asks, in a sharp, low voice. "Dueling Bolkonsky? Are you crazy?" Dolokhov fusses with his collar, buttoning it up quickly. "I leave you alone for one day --"

"You left me alone for two weeks," Anatole snaps, and feels a terrible, vicious pleasure at the shock that crosses Dolokhov's face.

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to negotiate a peace, and then we can be done with this foolishness." He starts towards Andrey, and Anatole catches him by the sleeve, halting him in his tracks.

"There will be no peace," he insists, looking Dolokhov in the face. "I won't agree to this, you don't know the things he said about me!" Dolokhov freezes, eyes going wide. It's like Anatole has pressed some button he didn't know was there, and stopped him in his tracks. "No peace," he says again, and watches Dolokhov seem to reboot himself.

"Don't be an idiot. You initiated the challenge, are you seriously telling me you're going to stand there and let _Andrey Bolkonsky_ take a shot at you?" He swallows hard. "Absolutely not."

This clearly isn't getting anywhere. Anatole turns back to Andrey, filled with a sudden and inexplicable surge of confidence, or perhaps eagerness to get it over with, and yells, "Are we doing this, or not?"

" _Fuck_ you," Dolokhov mutters, and tugs his hand away.

Andrey takes a step away from his friend. "Waiting on you, Kuragin." He takes his pistol and turns it over in his hands a few times, and cocks it with a practiced efficiency that makes Anatole's blood run cold.

He looks back at Dolokhov, eyes wide with fear. "I -- "

Dolokhov raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You started this, idiot." Then he takes a step closer, so close they're nearly touching, eyes dark and serious. "If you live through this, I'll kill you myself."

Well. That's not terribly reassuring. Anatole just shrugs and turns towards Andrey, fiddling with his own pistol. Andrey's second starts to speak, a thin, small man with a distinctly paperlike quality to his skin. "As the adversaries have refused a reconciliation," he says, as if he's reciting a particularly boring poem, "we shall proceed with the duel. Ready your pistols, and on the count of three, begin to advance." He glances at the doctor, who turns his back.

Christ. They're really doing it.

The second looks up at the sky and crosses himself, and then counts to three. They both start forward, with even, measured steps, although Anatole is much busier trying to look less terrified than he feels. Dolokhov, he notices, is a few feet off to the side, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, face creased into lines of worry. Anatole wants desperately to tell him it's going to be alright, wants desperately to be told so himself, to be comforted.

He's too busy looking at Dolokhov, which is why he doesn't see Andrey raise his pistol, doesn't see him pull the trigger, doesn't see the bullet arc its path towards him. All he sees is Dolokhov's expression shift from worry to outright fear, sees him fling out a hand and his lips part in a silent scream.

Sharp, hot pain explodes across his left side, and the impact knocks him off balance and to the side, and the only thing Anatole can think, through the pain, is that he's going to fall. The pistol slips from his nerveless fingers, but before he hits the ground, there's an arm around his waist to catch him, and he collides instead with Dolokhov's shoulder, his face pressed up against the wool of his coat. Anatole isn't sure how he moved so quickly.

He fists his hands in the back of Dolokhov's coat and tries not to cry out, the pain settling into a deep, throbbing ache, one that knocks the breath right out of him. Anatole focuses on Dolokhov, on the sudden, tense set to his shoulders, and the way his breathing hitches. Dolokhov raises his hand to his mouth and tugs his glove off with his teeth, and throws it to the ground.

"Pistols," he says, his voice like a whip crack. "Dawn. All of you." His gaze falls on the doctor, and he narrows his eyes. "Doctor. With me." The doctor scurries towards the troika and takes a seat next to the driver, and Dolokhov softens his voice. "I told you not to," he says, and hauls Anatole a little higher to take more of his weight. Andrey and his friends are dispersing, but it feels like they're the only two people in the world.

Anatole huffs out a breathless laugh, then winces, the movement sending a bolt of pain through him. He doubles over, Dolokhov's grip on him tightening. He can feel his shirt growing wet and hot, and when he pulls his hand away from his side, it comes up stained red. 

"Come on, Anatole," Dolokhov says, a note of desperation in his voice. "You have to let me get you to the troika. I need you to walk, a little." He tugs on the back of Anatole's coat, but he might as well be trying to move dead weight. Anatole's knees buckle, and it's only Dolokhov's hands keeping him upright at all.

"I can't," he gasps out. "I can't." The pain is all consuming, the most intense thing he's ever felt. He can't think. He can hardly breathe.

"Hey, hey, it's alright." Dolokhov's voice is gentle, and his fingers are moving pleasantly through the hair at the nape of Anatole's neck. He leans into the touch, needing something to focus on besides -- Well. Then, without preamble or warning, Dolokhov picks him up, getting an arm under his legs. Anatole isn't sure which hits him first, the shock, or the sudden pain. He tries to wriggle, but goes still and lets Dolokhov carry him to the troika. He can't even protest. Were he in a better state, he might feel the indignity of the situation more, but right now, the pain is making him see stars, and he can't imagine walking.

Somehow, Dolokhov gets them both into the troika, Anatole lying half in his lap. They're both covered in blood. His blood, Anatole realizes, with a sickening lurch to his stomach. He's starting to feel cold seeping into his bones, and an unpleasant jolt every time the troika hits a pothole. He can't keep the pained gasps and sounds down, and hot tears prick at his eyes. 

Dolokhov takes off his other glove and touches Anatole's cheek with careful fingers, forcing him to make eye contact. He looks serious, Anatole thinks through the haze, more serious than he's ever seen him, but there's an undercurrent of desperation in his eyes. "You're cold," he murmurs, and balls the glove up in his other hand. He nudges Anatole's hand away from his side, and sucks in a breath. "Christ, how much blood have you lost?"

It feels like a lot. There's no doubt in his mind that he's ruined both their shirts, a complaint that shouldn't be this important. Dolokhov presses the wadded up glove to his side, and he recoils, trying to get away, to make it stop, but the firm pressure continues no matter what he does. The troika hits a bump in the road, and Anatole lets out something between a sob and a scream, that sounds like it's been ripped out of him. His heart is racing, and his limbs feel heavy, immovable.

"It hurts." It sounds pitiful, pathetic, like a child. But Dolokhov doesn't seem to care, his eyes wide and fearful. Something about it, about seeing Dolokhov, usually so unflappable, afraid, sparks an uncontrollable fear within him. "It hurts, God, I'm sorry!"

"I know. Hush, I know." Dolokhov's voice is low and soothing, and sounds very far away. He's got his free hand in Anatole's hair, stroking it in an even rhythm. Black spots are swirling at the edges of Anatole's vision, but he focuses it on him. Covered in blood and terrified, trying desperately to keep it together, he looks, for maybe the first time, like a person. He looks beautiful. If this is the last face he sees, Anatole thinks, maybe that won't be so bad.

Everything is going a little gray. Anatole feels his eyes start to fall shut, and then Dolokhov is running a hand down his cheek with almost desperate care. "Hey. Stay with me, you hear?" His voice cracks. "Tolya, you have to stay awake." 

Anatole forces his eyes open to peer into his face. Dolokhov looks worried, he thinks fuzzily, he looks afraid. He doesn't want that. "Fedya, I'm sorry." Anatole's breath hitches, and his voice comes out high and panicked.

Dolokhov bites his lip, like he might cry. "Stay with me," he pleads. It's all he can get out.

His consciousness is slipping, but with one last effort, he raises his hand to Dolokhov's face, streaking blood across his cheek, fingers going slack. "You are ... the best thing," he says slowly, managing a weak smile. It's a fight to get the words out, but he has to. He has to. "The very best thing," he says again, and he's spent. Anatole goes limp, eyes fluttering closed. The very last thing he thinks before he lets the darkness in is that maybe, it will be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: graphic injury and gore

Anatole goes still and limp in his arms, and for about ten seconds, Fedya thinks he's dead. They are, without doubt, the worst ten seconds of his life. He pats his cheek a few times, trying to get a response out of him, and can't. His heart feels like it's going to pound out of his chest, and the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him. A world without Anatole Kuragin in it is duller, lifeless, infinitely less interesting. Fedya's breath catches in his throat and his eyes prickle with tears, and he drags his thumb down Anatole's cheekbone. He has no interest in living in such a world.

Then Fedya sees his chest rising and falling, and his heart leaps into his throat. He's still alive. They still have time. He keeps moving his thumb across Anatole's cheek, saying Hail Marys under his breath, afraid to stop. _Please_ , he thinks, directing the thought to any saint he can think of. He's not a devout man, far from it, but he'll do whatever he has to, to keep him breathing.

The troika shrieks to a halt outside his apartment. "Hold on," he tells Anatole, and kisses his forehead, like doing devotion to an icon. He lifts him carefully out and starts towards the door as fast as he can manage, the doctor trailing at his heels. Fedya kicks the door open and goes to Anatole's bedroom, laying him down on top of the sheets. He's gone sickly white, which only makes the stark contrast of the blood against his pale skin more dramatic. He looks half dead already, Fedya thinks, and banishes the thought.

He bends to unbutton his shirt, steadying the trembling in his hands almost ruthlessly. Underneath the shirt, the wound looks worse, an angry gash scoring his ribs. Fedya turns to the doctor, feeling like he might vibrate out of his skin. "What can I do?" he asks, his voice trembling only a little. He's useless here, and he feels it keenly. He has no skill in fixing things, only in breaking, in hurting. It's been trained into him with ruthless precision.

The doctor takes stock of him, and Fedya can guess what he sees. Covered in blood, shaking, and steps away from a total breakdown, he'll only make things worse. Still, that doesn't mean he wants to hear it.

"Ah -- Captain Dolokhov," the doctor says delicately, setting his bag down on the mattress, "perhaps you should go ... clean up a little." He gestures vaguely at his clothes, and Fedya can't help but flush. "Your friend will be in good hands with me, but it will be much more reassuring when he wakes up if you're there, and aren't --"

"Bloody?" he cuts in, the words biting. Just because it's a reasonable request doesn't mean he wants to hear it.

"Disheveled, is what I was going to say." He hesitates, and takes a step closer, putting a hand on Fedya's upper arm. "You've done more than enough, Captain. Let me do my job." And he's not -- he's not going to break down just because some doctor tells him he's done exactly what he's supposed to do. He's better than that.

Fedya goes, casting one last anxious glance back at the bed, then turns away. There's nothing he can do here, he reminds himself, as he goes to the tiny bathroom and runs the taps in the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror, dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in all directions, and hardly recognizes his own face. So instead, he looks down at his hands, stained red with blood that doesn't belong to him, which is no better. Hangman's hands, he thinks. He bites his lip hard enough to break skin and thrusts his hands under the water, still too cold for comfort, but it's better than letting them stay dirty a moment longer.

The water runs over his hands, staining the basin red, and Fedya watches as it pales to pink and then runs clear. He picks up the bar of soap and starts to scrub, trying to get any remnants of it out. He scrubs long after there's anything left to clean, worked almost into a frenzy as the remaining adrenaline spills over into hysteria. He thinks, if he can shed his skin entirely, all of this will have happened to someone else. It won't be him.

He scrubs his hands until they're almost raw, then, breathing hard, goes to his room in search of clean clothes, tossing the bloodied ones in the back of the closet, where he won't have to look at them. Fedya doesn't think he can stand to look at them a minute longer. He dresses quickly, and sits down on the edge of the mattress, resting his head in his hands.

How did he let this happen? The stubborn bastard had fought him tooth and nail to be allowed to do this, but Fedya still can't shake the thought that there had been more he could have done to stop it. How much of a fight had he put up, really? And now Anatole is in the other room, bleeding out, and he doesn't even know if he's alive or dead. He should have marched Anatole to the troika the second he got to the dueling ground and run for it, honor be damned. The shock he'd had, coming back to find that note sitting on the table, is something he never wants to experience again. He's not entirely sure it's past.

Fedya pictures his face, just before the duel, saying this wouldn't have happened if he'd been there. Maybe he's right. He'd been busy, he tells himself, looking for work, trying to get some money, and look where that had gotten them? But no, Anatole had issued the challenge himself. Frenzied worry shifts to anger. What in God's name had Bolkonsky said, to start all of this? He has three duels to fight tomorrow, and he just hopes they're worth it. 

A sound from the other room startles him out of his thoughts, a high, keening wail of pain. Fedya sits bolt upright, mind going into a panicked overdrive. He's at the door to the bedroom before making the conscious decision to move, looking in at Anatole's face, lined with pain, the doctor dabbing at the wound with a rag that smells of disinfectant.

"What are you doing?" he asks, low and deadly. Intellectually, he knows it has to be done, the gash has to be purged of infection, but hates the thought of Anatole in pain all the same. He could stop it, he thinks wildly, he could go in there right now and run this man out of the house. But he doesn't. He hovers in the doorway, caught between fleeing and confrontation, and hates himself for the indecision.

The doctor looks up, unfazed by his fury, and Fedya has to respect him a little for that. The man knows who he is, and must have some idea of his reputation, and yet he stands his ground.

"Captain Dolokhov," he says, impassive. "I've removed the bullet, and will start stitching the wound closed. I do believe we're almost out of the woods, as long as the bleeding stops soon." He wipes his hands efficiently on a towel and scrutinizes Fedya for a moment. "You're not a nurse," he says consideringly, "but you'll have to do."

Fedya frowns, uneasiness gathering in his throat. "I don't understand."

He comes a little closer. "I need to stitch it closed. Any sudden movement could tear the stitches out, and I have no anesthesia." He pauses for a moment, just long enough for Fedya to understand what's being asked of him.

"Oh," he says, throat closing, and nods. Anything he can do, he'd wanted, but now, being asked, he finds it difficult to summon up the nerve. Fedya moves slowly towards the bed and hovers over it, indecisive. "Where do you --"

The doctor rummages through his bag and pulls out a needle and a pale thread, and turns back to him. "If you would be so kind as to sit, there, on the mattress, and hold his shoulders?" He holds up the needle. "I'll do my best to be quick."

Quick. Fedya swallows hard and sits down on the edge of the mattress, putting a hand on Anatole's shoulder and taking his hand with the other, looking anywhere but at his face. It will be easier. He killed the shah's brother and lots more besides, he can do this. "Go ahead," he says, and is almost surprised to hear his voice come out rough.

Gentleness doesn't come easily to him, but he tries to hold him down carefully, stroking Anatole's palm with the pad of his thumb to soothe him when he twitches and makes tiny, cut off sounds of pain. It takes too long, too damnably long, and by the time it's done, Fedya feels like he's aged a hundred years. But finally, it ends, and there are bandages and instructions as to how and how often they should be exchanged, and the doctor stands, putting a hand on Fedya's shoulder in a strangely paternal gesture. Fedya feels none of it, too drained to bristle at the touch.

"Let him rest," the man says, and pats his shoulder. "Good man."

Fedya nods, and doesn't bother to see him out. The door swings shut with a click a moment later, and he feels the silence hanging on him like a hundred pound weight. Before, when there had been other people here, and something to do, he had hardly had time to feel it, but now, alone and useless, he can't help but notice. He looks back down at Anatole, and attempts to pull his hand away. But Anatole's grip tightens on him, and some tightness in his chest eases imperceptibly. Still here, he reminds himself. They're still here.

Without letting go, Fedya moves to the footstool beside the bed, and settles in to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it doesn't matter, i don't give a damn.

To his own considerable surprise, Anatole wakes up, and immediately regrets it. He feels faintly like a mule has kicked him in the ribs, and he's in his own bed, and it's dark, which doesn't make sense, because the last place he remembers being is -- 

Right. It all comes flooding back, the duel, and the bullet, and the troika ride back to the apartment, and -- Someone's holding his hand. Anatole pushes himself up unsteadily, ignoring the strain it causes, and sits back against the headboard, careful not to move his hand too much. 

He looks down through the darkness and finds that it's Dolokhov holding his hand, hunched on the low stool next to the bed, head resting on the mattress, fast asleep. His head is turned towards Anatole, and in the dim light of the streetlight outside the window, his eyelashes cast faint shadows down his cheek and his hair flops lazily across his forehead in a state of disorder he'd never allow while awake. Sleep smooths away the tiny creases around his eyes, not from happiness or laughter, but from worry, and softens the tightness in his jaw. Awake, Dolokhov -- No, Fedya, he thinks distractedly, puts on a mask of fierceness and brutality that, while true, must take a terrible toll. Asleep, he looks years younger. How had Anatole never noticed?

Without conscious thought, Anatole reaches over to smooth his hair back off his forehead, and Fedya leans into the touch, almost like a cat. He keeps moving his hand through Fedya's hair, and Fedya murmurs something in his sleep and slumps forward on the stool, getting closer. Anatole freezes, hand still resting on Fedya's hair, and contemplates his next move. They'd been ... close, before, certainly, but never tender, never like this. If he tried the same thing with Fedya awake, Anatole has no doubt he'd be brushed off like a fly, with just as little emotional investment in the matter. But now, asleep, he seems almost starved for affection in a way he'd rather die than admit to while awake.

Something in his chest clenches at the thought of it, but before he gets the opportunity to figure out why, Fedya stirs, and he has to retract his hand quickly, before he's caught.

Fedya opens his eyes and sits up, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand and frowning. He looks up at Anatole, and there's a flash of naked relief across his face for a split second, before it closes off. He retracts his hand, and looks down at the mattress. When he looks up again, he's back to himself, all sharp lines and hard eyes. It's an utterly convincing mask, Anatole thinks, and it's frightening how little time he needs to put it on.

"What time is it?" Fedya asks, and pushes his hair back neatly, the last piece slotting into place. He might as well be a different person entirely from the man who'd held him together in the troika, from the one who'd been sleeping only a minute ago. It's a masterful performance, made all the more disturbing by the fact that he has no idea how long Fedya's been doing it.

Anatole swallows hard and looks around for the clock, then out the window, where the moon is just starting to set. "Nearly morning," he says slowly, moving his hands to fiddle with the bandages at his side. He's just starting to realize how much must have happened while he was -- while he was sleeping. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"It's my house," Fedya points out. "I live here."

"No, I know, I know." He can't help but feel a little awkward about it, after the last conversation they'd had. Christ, what had he been thinking? If there'd ever been a time to say what he'd said, or been trying to say, in whatever clumsy, unthinking way he'd said it, that hadn't been the opportune moment.

His hands are cold. Anatole clenches them into fists and doesn't say anything for a long moment.

Fedya beats him to the punch. "What did he say to you?" he asks, and for once, the words don't sound planned. The trick to being Fedya Dolokhov, Anatole thinks, is in making everything, no matter how small, sound as if he's spent hours carefully weighing the words for the most efficient and precise combination. "Bolkonsky. What did he say, to make you challenge him?"

Anatole thinks back. Now that it's all said and done with, he hardly remembers what had started the quarrel, only the unpleasant end. But it comes back to him in fits and starts. "He said I was a disgrace, a scoundrel, that I lured Natasha into her own ruin." It stings to remember, and his voice comes out in a jagged burst. He looks up, fully expecting Fedya to be horrified on his behalf, to leap to his defense.

Instead, he's looking at Anatole with a mixture of confusion and something he can't read. "Is that all?" Fedya asks, voice strained.

"Is that all?" Anatole repeats, disbelieving. "What do you mean, is that all? That's my reputation he's dragging through the mud."

Fedya shakes himself and narrows his eyes, then drums his fingers on his knee. Anatole knows that look. It's the look he gets just before he starts in on one of his lambasts, carefully constructed in that quiet, intense voice of his, designed to hit with terrifying precision. "If that's all the mud he's slinging, you should count yourself lucky, because it's true." It comes out low and vicious, and Anatole can't help but recoil. Of all people, he hadn't expected to hear it from Fedya, and it stings, he thinks, more than he'd expect.

"I thought you were on my side," he shoots back, petulant. "Honestly, Fedya, I didn't come here to be yelled at again."

Fedya stiffens, but Anatole doesn't register it as a threat, doesn't remember that foxes go still just before they kill the rabbit. He just thinks he's scored a point in a fight he didn't anticipate having to fight. "I am on your side," Fedya says, just barely controlled. "I tried to talk you out of this fool idea, and you didn't listen. I let you go through with this, and look where it got you. And now you tell me this happened because you can't stand to hear the truth about yourself? You did all those things. That was you." His voice is rising now, not in volume, but in intensity. Right now, it's all venom. "I should know. I took care of you. I _have_ been taking care of you."

"I didn't ask you to," Anatole snaps, and on a certain level, he wants it to hurt. Fedya jerks back, expression going stricken, and he realizes he's been too successful. Anatole replays the words in his mind. It's what his father would say. 

But it's too late to take them back. Fedya stands sharply. "You never do." He grits his teeth and clenches his hands. He never yells, no matter how angry he gets, keeping it on a tight leash. It's almost more frightening, that tight composure, and Anatole isn't sure he wants to see him lose control. Fedya reaches for his pistol and sticks it into his coat. "I have to go fight three duels, now. Even if you didn't ask me to. Because someone has to clean up your messes." He turns on his heel and starts for the door, tugging his coat back on.

"Fedya, wait," he begs, eyes going wide. His breath catches in his throat, and the room feels like it's closing in around him. Three duels? Fedya could die out there, all alone, and then where would he be? Anatole bites his lip. "Don't leave me."

Fedya pauses in the doorway, back turned. He lets out a breath, and shakes his head. "Sometimes," he says, and he doesn't sound angry, or bitter, just exhausted. "I don't think you care about anyone but yourself." He walks out the front door, and when it closes behind him, the sound of it is like a death knell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a war going on, out there somewhere

Waiting is a torment. He can't sleep, not after the argument they've had, so Anatole sits straight upright in the bed, eyes wide, listening out the window. The Chernaya isn't far from the apartment. It's certainly within earshot, and pistol reports are loud. As he waits, listening for any indication of what's going on, he can't help but hear their argument over and over again in his mind.

Is he selfish? It's a question he's never properly thought about before, too wrapped up in his own affairs to care. Dryly, he thinks that's probably a pretty good indicator in the affirmative. And he'd had every reason to be, back in Moscow. He'd had money, and reputation, and a family name that could get him anywhere, so why not be selfish? Here, he thinks, he has nothing, and no one. The one person he'd managed to keep around, he's driven away, and God knows if he'll be back at all.

_I have been taking care of you,_ Fedya had said, like the snarl of a wounded animal. And Anatole can't find it in himself to disagree. He'd picked up his entire life and moved it across the country because Anatole needed him, and tried to protect him from his own bad ideas, and was always, always there. And he isn't a good person, perhaps. He drinks, and fights too much, and doesn't bother to explain anything he does, to the point of driving Anatole mad, but he's a person. Anatole should have seen that long ago.

He hears the first report of pistols just after dawn, and tenses up in the bed. Fedya made the challenge. That, he remembers. So he shoots second. Anatole finds himself hoping against hope to hear the second shot, just to know that Fedya is alive to take it. 

It comes a few seconds later, and he sags with relief. One down. Two to go. Christ, he shouldn't have let Fedya walk out the door in the first place, should have made so much of a scene that he'd have been forced to stay put. And certainly, Fedya is the best shot in Moscow, in Petersburg, but that doesn't mean anything when he's lost the only duel Anatole has seen him in, and he isn't _here_.

There's silence for about ten minutes, and it's unbearable. Anatole chews on his lip anxiously and waits for some sound, any sound. He looks at the window, but can't see out, and pauses. It's not so far away from the bed. Maybe he can make it there. He pushes the covers off weakly and tries to swing his legs off the mattress, but the movement makes him see stars. He sucks in a pained breath and puts a hand on his side. He can't get to the window. He can't even get out of bed. But worse than the helplessness is the interminable waiting.

A shot, and then another after it. He can't breathe. It feels like someone's cracked open his ribs and exposed everything vulnerable in him. _Let him come back_ , Anatole thinks wildly, and for what might be the first time in his adult life, it's not a self serving wish. He just wants to see Fedya, to see that he's alright, that he isn't hurt. Then he can start to sort out the gnawing, writhing mess of pain and vulnerability and fear gathering in the pit of his stomach. 

For God's sake, this is terrible. He never wants to do this again, this waiting. Anatole pulls the covers back over himself and stares, wide eyed, into the darkness of the room. He hear the crack of a pistol, and then nothing, for one second, for two, then five, until Anatole can't bear the sound of the silence any longer. His nervous, traitorous mind won't stop supplying him with images of Fedya shot, hurt, bleeding, dying, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

There! Faint but unmistakable, the sound of gunfire in the distance. Anatole lets out a breath and sags back against the pillows, the vice grip on his heart loosening slightly. It's done. It's over. Now he can figure out how to fix whatever he's done.

But Fedya doesn't return for twenty minutes, then thirty, then an hour, and Anatole can't for the life of him think why. He had to know, didn't he, that Anatole would be worried? That he'd want to see him back safe? It occurs to him, then, just how many ways there are for a man to die, in the company of people he'd dueled. How easy it would be for someone like Andrey Bolkonsky and his friends to lose a duel and try to take revenge some other way. And maybe it's an irrational fear, but Bolkonsky had said he'd be doing the world a favor taking Anatole out of it. Who's to say what he'll do?

The door opens quietly, and for one terrifying moment, Anatole thinks Bolkonsky's here, that he's come to finish the job. He pulls his knees to his chest and leans back against the headboard, completely silent, listening as whoever it is makes their way through the apartment. They're taking care not to make much noise, which isn't encouraging, but he can follow their progress through the parlor. There's a sudden clatter, and a muttered curse.

Anatole's throat goes dry. For the second time in one day, there's the very real possibility he could die right here. He props himself up higher, ignoring the wave of pain that causes, and reaches carefully over to the nightstand for anything he can find. He's not going to go down without a fight. Leaning over gives him a clearer view through the door, and the figure in the parlor, back turned and fiddling with the lamp. He'd recognize the silhouette anywhere.

"Fedya?" he says quietly. The figure turns, and it's Fedya, a little bruised, lines of worry etched into his face, but alive. A wave of relief breaks over him, cut short by the realization that he's leaning too far over the edge of the bed to balance, in his weakened state. Anatole yelp as he topples over, landing in an ungainly heap of limbs on the carpeted floor, as pain rips through his side.

"Jesus Christ," Fedya exclaims, and then a second later he's crouched next to Anatole, hands hovering over him, almost like he's afraid to touch him. "Don't scare me like that. Are you alright?" He seems to come to a decision, half lifting, half guiding him back to the bed, and for once, Anatole can't complain about needing the help, too shocked at how normal it all feels. 

"I'm alright," he says, when he's settled back on the mattress, one hand pressed to his side, and just looks at Fedya. "You came back," he says, after a moment, then bites his lip. Anatole really hadn't been sure he would, that he'd either get himself killed, or that he'd just gotten tired of putting up with him. Still, he's not sure he should have said it.

Fedya gives him an odd look, as if to say, _did you expect anything different?_ "I did," he says, and starts to stand.

Anatole can see how this is going. Fedya's going to brush him off, because that's what he does, and then there'll be this unsurpassable gulf between them that will just grow wider and wider, and they'll be two strangers under the same roof, and he doesn't think he can bear that. So he reaches up and tugs Fedya down by the hand.

"I'm sorry," he says, and in that moment, he feels the truth of it knocking against his ribs. "I care. I do." It would be so terribly easy to lose Fedya, to drive him away. Being alone would be its own misery, he thinks, but it would be another entirely to hurt him. He's so tired of hurting people with his own negligence, tired of making mistakes he doesn't understand. If he has to make them, he thinks, let them be different ones.

Fedya looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time, unguarded and startlingly vulnerable. He looks down at their joined hands, but doesn't pull away. "It's alright," he says, with an uneasy half smile, and studies his face. Anatole feels small under his scrutiny. "You should get some rest," Fedya says quietly, squeezing his hand. "I'll go in the other room, give you some privacy."

"Wait, no." Anatole tugs on his hand again, the words coming out faster than he can stop them. He bites his lip, but doesn't let go. Object permanence, he thinks. If you can't see something, does it cease to exist? They've made such a fragile peace. He doesn't want to see it vanish."Stay here? Please." It's a stupid, childish request, and for a moment, Anatole thinks he's going to be laughed off.

But Fedya bites his lip, and sighs. "Move over," he says, pushing Anatole gently towards the other side of the mattress. "I'm not staying on that stool again. Damned uncomfortable."

Anatole shifts over hurriedly to accommodate him, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. It's too small for two, and they have to press close to both fit, which strangely, is making his heart beat staccato against his ribs. It's just Fedya, he reminds himself. Safe as houses. There's an odd little dance where they both try to touch as little as possible, but eventually, they're settled, Anatole lying down facing him, and Fedya sitting up against the headboard.

"Go to sleep," Fedya says, and to Anatole's surprise, he sounds oddly affectionate. It's that which emboldens him to inch a little closer, putting his head against Fedya's hip.

"Stay here, will you?" he murmurs, fighting back a yawn and letting his eyes close.

Fedya huffs out a startled little laugh, and cautiously, puts a hand to rest on his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."


	7. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha. ha. it hasn't been a month. what are you talking about.

Because it's Anatole, Fedya thinks, he shouldn't be surprised when the uneasy truce only lasts a couple of days. He doubts that fool of a boy has ever had to try and change his behavior for anyone, before. He shouldn't be expecting anything remarkable. He's not even sure Anatole can change what he is.

But for the first two days, it's remarkably peaceful. He doesn't try to argue when Fedya tells him to be still and stop trying to walk around. He sits there quietly, looking pensive, but doesn't try anything foolish. It's like he's been replaced with a totally different person. Fedya doesn't get it. It's a little frightening, if he's being honest. And as welcome as the change is, at first, Fedya misses the old Anatole. He misses the confidence, the way he used to walk into a room like he owned it. Now, he's not walking at all. The charm, the wit, the easy grins, are all gone.

He's been head over heels for that Anatole for years, and as infuriating as he can be, Fedya wants him back.

So maybe he prods a little. No one would ever accuse him of being well bred or well mannered, regardless of his mother's vain attempts in that direction. He's long since learned that sometimes, the only way to get what he wants is to irritate people into giving it to him. And Anatole -- Oh, Anatole is so easy to prod. By afternoon, he's tense, and bound to snap.

Just before dinner, there's a knock at the door. Fedya looks up from his spot on the couch, where he'd been reading the paper, and frowns.

"Are you expecting someone?" Anatole calls. He's still in bed, having been forbidden from any other room until he can walk on his own. If Fedya's being frank, that hasn't gone very well.

Fedya folds the paper down. "No," he says slowly. It's not likely that Bolkonsky would come back, is it? He'd won the first duel, and by the time Fedya had gotten to him, he'd been tired of the endless weeping and wailing that came with shooting people. So Bolkonsky has no reason to be here.

He goes to the door, nerves fraying, and hesitates a moment before opening it. No one is going to shoot him, he reminds himself.

"You boys sure aren't easy to find, are you?" Helene asks from the other side of the door, and he almost closes it in her face, surprised as he is. She's dressed for travel, hair pulled up in a style a little more practical than her usual twist, and a long green coat buttoned up neatly over her dress. She's so familiar and welcome that for a moment, he thinks he's going to cry. Helene will know how to fix this, whatever it is.

Helene raises her eyebrows, patience clearly thinning. "Well, aren't you going to let me in?" She shoves at the door, to no effect.

"Anatole!" Fedya turns over his shoulder to yell into the bedroom. "Helene is here." Then he steps aside, out of the doorframe.

"What?" There's a loud clatter from the other room, one that makes him wince at its sheer volume. But he's got no time to see if Anatole has fallen out of bed (for the third time, notably) because Helene sets her bag down pointedly down on his foot.

"Be a gentlemen, Fyodor," she says, as he tries to move it off. Damn her, why is it so heavy? "Get my bag."

"What did you pack?" he asks, finally succeeding in getting it off his foot. Fedya manages to lift it, with a strained sound, and sets it down next to the coat rack. "Your entire silver collection? Jesus, Lena, how long are you going to stay?"

She gives him the sort of look that implies he's definitely done something wrong, although neither of them know what it is yet. It's faintly terrifying, and completely characteristic of her. Helene unbuttons her coat and tosses it to the side, and it lands on top of her suitcase. "That," she says, savoring the sound of the words, "depends entirely on you."

That's not any less terrifying.

Anatole appears in the doorway a moment later, pale and drawn, clutching at his side with one hand. "Lena?" he asks, looking like he's seen a ghost. He leans heavily against the doorframe, and Helene rushes to his side, shooting Fedya a poisonous look as she goes.

"Toto, what's happened to you?" She puts a hand on his hip, steadying him, and caresses his cheek with her other hand.

"I, uh," Anatole glances over her shoulder at Fedya, looking for some kind of answer, but Fedya's still thinking over the implications of _why Helene is here_. Who talked? Who knows what? And for the love of God, how is he going to get in trouble for Anatole's actions this time?

"I got in a duel?" he finishes, shrugging one shoulder.

All at once, Fedya feels the temperature in the room drop about ten degrees. Helene turns slowly to look at him, and if looks could kill, she'd be saying the eulogy at his funeral already, filling it with lots of snide remarks and references to his manifold failures.

"Toto, love," she says slowly, "let me help you back to bed. I think Fyodor and I need to discuss something."

All the blood leaves his face. Oh, he's in trouble now. Fedya attempts to make a move for the door, but Helene halts him with a look.

"You're so sweet to get the door for me." Damn it all. "But why don't you come help me get Anatole get back to bed?"

Feeling like a sulky child, Fedya goes back to help her. It takes both of them to get him back in bed, which sends a stab of guilt through him. How can Anatole still be so fragile?

The moment they're out the door, Helene's grip on his arm tightens to the point of pain. "Fyodor," she says, low and dangerous. He's heard her use that tone with Pierre, before now. It's the one she uses when she wants him to feel lower than a worm. He'd hoped she'd never have cause to use it on him. "Why is my brother fighting in duels?"

Fedya laughs nervously and tries to pull his arm away, to little effect. "I, uh-- I can definitely explain."

Helene raises her eyebrows and turns to nod politely at a passing man as they walk, all the while keeping her grip on him. "I suggest you do."

It's not his fault. It isn't, and he's not going to let Helene or his own guilt change his mind. "He went drinking when I was out looking for work and got in a spat with Andrey Bolkonsky. I found out about the duel about ten minutes before it happened."

"And yet you let it happen." Helene yanks him to a halt, eyes blazing, and he cringes away from her. Everything she says will be something he's thought a thousand times since this all happened, but he's not looking forward to the confirmation. "He could have been killed. You claim to be so in love with him, and you couldn't even keep him from that!"

"I've never said that." Fedya's heart is racing. "I never said I was in love with him."

Helene throws her hands up in the air. "Christ, Fyodor, did you really think you had to?" She jabs at his shoulder, and he stumbles back a step. "All anyone has to do is look at you whenever you're around him. I'd be surprised he hasn't noticed, except the only one more oblivious than you --" She cuts herself off abruptly and hits his shoulder with a surprising amount of force. Fedya yelps, taking another step back. This isn't at all what he wanted from her. "Look. I came here to make sure you two idiots weren't on the point of killing each other. Clearly I have my work cut out for me. Things are worse than I thought."

"What are you going to do?" He'd wanted her to fix things, not do whatever this is.

Helene reaches up to him, and he flinches away, but she just pats his cheek with a sharp edged grin. He knows that grin. He's seen it on Anatole. It means trouble, and having it levelled at him is even more terrifying. "Oh, you'll see, mon cher." Helene gives a wicked laugh. "You'll see."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole thinks he might hate his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Me, putting out a chapter in a relatively timely fashion? Unrealistic. And yet, here we are.

It's bizarre, having Lena there. She slips into the cracks of the foundation of the life they've started to build, as if she was always there. She tsks over the state of their apartment, the lack of food, and makes Fedya cook something decent as if they're all at home in Moscow and it's an ordinary evening. 

Dinner gets...odd. Anatole manages to make it to the table by himself, and is summarily fussed over and told to be more careful with himself. They start eating, and it's less than five minutes before he notices what Lena's doing. She's got one foot curled around Fedya's under the table, and every couple of minutes she pretends to bump into him on her way to reach for something she most certainly doesn't need. And Fedya hardly seems to notice, which should be a consolation, but with the possessive looks she's giving him Anatole feels like the room is spinning and he can't breathe at all. What is she _doing_?

And he'd known, intellectually, that his sister and Fedya were lovers, that they enjoyed one another every so often. Lena isn't likely to seek solace in her husband's arms, and Fedya is objectively more charming. Objectively. But he hadn't thought Fedya loved her--!

Anatole could scream, with how frustrated he is. How dare she just walk in here, as though she owns the place, and do this? Her hand on Fedya's is stirring feelings in his gut he doesn't dare anatomize, and if this goes on much longer, he's going to snap and kill one of them.

"Are you alright, Toto?" And oh, that's definitely smug amusement playing around the corners of her mouth.

Anatole looks down at his plate as if he's been burned by her gaze, and fiddles with his fork. "I'm perfectly fine," he says, biting off the edges of the words. Christ, he wants to kill something. What kind of nonsense is this? Are there no other men interested in her in Moscow, that she has to come all the way to St. Petersburg to find one?

"Good." The smile widens, growing even more amused, and Lena drags her fingertips down Fedya's arm. "I'm glad to hear it."

Anatole squeezes his fork so hard his knuckles go white. "What were you saying, earlier?" There'd been something, something he'd been far too angry to hear, but now he's looking for something safe to discuss, so he can stop thinking about the awful churning in his stomach.

"I was saying that Fyodor and I are going drinking tonight. There's got to be a decent club somewhere in this dreadful town." Lena is trying to kill him. That's what this has to be. She's gotten tired of him, so she's trying to kill him by dragging Fedya out at all hours of the night and leaving him alone.

"Fine. Good. You have fun, then." His voice is tight and too strained, and Fedya casts a worried glance over at him, but he can't even _look_ at Fedya without the -- and it's not jealousy, it's not. Fedya was his friend before he was Lena's lover. Finders, keepers. Anatole pushes himself up heavily. "I'm going to bed." With that, he stalks off to his bedroom with as much dignity as he can muster.

No one follows him, which stings more than he'd like. It's fine. He doesn't need them. He doesn't need anyone. A little while later, he hears them go out, and the door swing shut behind them. His eyes don't prick with unshed tears. That would be ridiculous, and undignified, and he refuses to let being shot turn him into a pathetic, weepy child.

The time passes torturously slowly, while they're out. Anatole sits in bed, the covers loose around his knees, and twitches at every sound he hears. He can't stop thinking of what's happening while he can't see them, can't stop picturing Lena, with her stupid, pretty face, and her purring voice, buying the drinks, and edging closer, laughing and pulling him into an alley, leaning in to kiss him --

The door opens. Anatole jerks upright, heart racing, and feeling like he's going to be ill. "Fedya?" he calls, but no one responds. Instead, he can faintly hear the sound of his sister and Fedya arguing, just outside the door.

"I don't want to hear it, Helene--"

"Well, that's just too bad. You didn't really think I wouldn't notice?"

"I don't _care_ what you notice, it's none of your damn business--!"

Anatole goes quiet and leans forward, trying to make out more of the conversation. What happened while they were out? But the rest of it is unintelligible, until he hears Fedya's familiar step go out, and the door slamming shut behind him.

There's a sigh, and then the door to his room opens, and Lena peers in. "Oh. Toto. I didn't realize you were still awake." The terrible thing is that he's not even sure if she's lying. She steps inside and leans up against the wall, dabbing at her eyes with the tip of her handkerchief. "That man has such a temper. You'd think he'd never received a piece of constructive criticism in his life."

Something about the casual tone of the conversation is setting off a tiny spark of anger in his chest. "What did you say to him?" Anatole asks, trying to keep his voice light.

She waves her handkerchief dismissively, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, you know, this and that. That he needs a hobby. Maybe a social life. It can't be good for him, stuck in here all the time. No offense, Toto. He needs to get out every now and again, maybe meet someone."

"What?" When she says it, it sounds so reasonable. What kind of fun can Fedya be having stuck in here all day with him? He's young, people like him, what reason can there be for him to stay?

This is his sister's fault, somehow. This would never have happened if she'd just stayed away. 

"Where is he?"

Lena raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Careful, brother, that almost sounds like you give a damn," she drawls."He went out. I don't think he liked what I had to say very much." She sniffs, looking away. "Idiot, running around in this weather without a coat. And drunk. Well, if he freezes to death, he's got no one to blame but himself."

His heart leaps into his throat at the thought. " _Where_ , Lena?" he asks sharply. Someone's got to bring him back, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, and the day his sister does something like that is the day he'll eat his boots.

"I don't know. The bridge down the street." She shrugs. "I'm going to sleep." With that, she goes out again, leaving the door half open behind her.

It's not even a conscious choice, really. Anatole pushes himself up unsteadily to sit, and bends to tie his boots up. If Lena won't go after him, well, he's just going to have to do it himself.

It's freezing out, and he shouldn't be walking at all. But damn it, he's not going to just let Fedya sit out here all alone, freezing and angry. Anatole makes his way carefully down the street, stumbling every so often on the cobblestones, and stops a few steps away from the little stone bridge. He can vaguely make out a figure sitting on the edge, feet dangling down over the water. He's got a bottle in one hand, and from what Anatole can see, he's staring, unfocused, at the city. Fedya. It's a short drop into the water, but he looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, or being marched towards execution. It should be a relief to see him, but instead, the worry and fear just keep swirling tighter.

Anatole takes the last few steps towards him and stops next to him, looking out at the view. Fedya doesn't turn to acknowledge him, just takes another swig out of the bottle and sets it between them.

What does he say? How does he even begin to fix this, to bridge the gulf? He's got a terrible sense of just how fragile Fedya is, at this moment, how easily he could shatter. He's got to be more careful than he's ever been in his life.

"I was looking for you." Anatole picks up the bottle, swirling the liquid inside. It's nearly half empty. He doesn't want to know how full it was when Fedya got hold of it. But he takes a sip, nearly coughing at the burn in his throat.

"Why?" It's not harsh, at least. Fedya still isn't looking at him, but at least they're talking, now.

How does he answer that? Anatole bites his lip. Why is he here? It's not like him, he's sure of that. "It's cold out," he finally says, and leans against the stones of the bridge. "You weren't wearing a coat. I was worried." And strangely, it's the truth. As much as Fedya can take care of himself, he'd been worried. He'd cared.

Fedya turns his head to look at him, and Anatole has to stop from reacting at just how worn he looks. His eyes are bloodshot, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You were worried about me?" he echoes. "You're the one who shouldn't be out walking."

"Hmm. And yet, here I am. I wonder why that could be?" It's surprisingly natural to fall back into the playful banter, to tease him out of whatever funk he's slipped into. Anatole nudges his shoulder.

Fedya reaches over to cuff the side of his head gently. "You're a menace," he grumbles, but it isn't unkind. It's odd. For a man who professes to be so cruel, Anatole has never seen that hardness directed towards him.

Anatole laughs and bats at his hand, an odd, tender feeling spreading through his chest. He drapes Fedya's coat over his shoulders, and Fedya leans back against his chest. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just takes a deep breath and seems to prepare himself for something. When he does speak, it's quiet, and almost achingly vulnerable.

"In the carriage," he starts slowly, gaining momentum, "When you -- when you passed out. There was a moment where I thought you were dead. And all I could think was how uninterested I was in living in a world without you in it."

Anatole freezes up, though his thoughts are racing a mile a minute. Fedya's drunk, he thinks. He doesn't mean that. He can't mean that. But he's got to _say_ something, damn it, why can't he think of anything to say? It's ridiculous, and terrifying, how often Fedya robs him of speech. It's terrifying how much he wants him to mean it. He's been caught in this web for years, in Fedya's strange kindness and teasing and the way he seems to care without trying, for so long that he no longer even wants to try to escape. 

But Fedya wants his sister. He might not love her, but he wants her. That, Anatole is sure of. Why else would he carry on with her? Their affair is why he'd taken up with Natasha Rostova in the first place, to distract himself from them, from the way they obsessed over each other. He'd thought he loved Natasha. Now, he thinks, he just wanted someone to want him back. He'd wanted something to distract himself from the fact that Fedya didn't want him back.

He's been quiet for too long. What does he say? After this long, waiting, wishing for any sign, how can he believe it?

"I'm here," he says softly, and squeezes Fedya's shoulders. "Let's go home."

Fedya's drunk. He'll have forgotten by morning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back boys

In the morning, Fedya complains of a headache, and spends his time moping and wincing on the couch. Every so often, he looks over at Anatole with a pensive expression. He doesn't bring up anything of the night before, which must mean he doesn't remember, and the thought of it is making his stomach twist and his chest go tight and painful. Anatole isn't sure whether he wants him to remember or not. Fedya remembering would mean he'd have to face up to what he'd said. Fedya forgetting means he'll never know for sure what he meant.

And Lena is still there, getting in the way, slinking around like she owns the place. She plops herself down on the couch next to Fedya and leans up against him, preening at the way his arm comes up to wrap around her shoulders, seemingly without thought. Anatole wants to cry at the closeness between them. They're a matching set, he thinks, all biting remarks and sardonically amused looks when they think no one else is watching. He's an idiot for thinking he could ever break that.

"You alright, Anatole?" Fedya's looking over at him with an unreadable expression, leaning forward a little. 

Anatole shakes himself. "I'm fine." They don't need him getting in the middle of things. He's not wanted here, he can see that quite clearly. He stands awkwardly, side still aching, and glances back towards his room. "A little tired. I think I'll go get some sleep." Anything to get away from this unbearable feeling of disappointment and hurt.

Fedya's expression goes adorably, heart wrenchingly concerned, and he starts to stand. "Do you need anything?"

"No. No." Anatole isn't sure he could bear Fedya fussing over him right now, to be so close and yet to know it's never going to be anything more than that. "I'll manage on my own." He makes his way back to his room, closing the door firmly behind himself, and sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress. Anatole rests his elbows on his knees and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes so hard he sees stars. What is he supposed to do about any of this? Why can't things just go back to the way they'd been a week ago, like his sister never came here? Things were good then. They made sense.

A soft knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts. "Go away," he calls dully, fully expecting it to be Fedya, here to press his point, force him back into a state of invalidity he'd fought so hard to escape the second Lena got here. His sister isn't allowed to see him like that. Fedya offers him no other choice, just keeps prodding at him until he says what's actually wrong.

The door opens, and to his slight surprise, it's Lena, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild irritation. "I will not go away, idiot," she says, and steps inside, closing the door behind her.

"What do you want?" Nothing good, he's sure. Anatole falls back against the mattress, closing his eyes. "I would have thought you'd be too busy with your boy toy to come and check on _me_." It comes out sharp, and a little harsher than is completely appropriate, but he and Lena have never been the kind of siblings who cosset each other.

She sits down next to him, and reaches over to flick his forehead. Anatole lets out a little yelp of alarm, but leans up to muss her hair, and Lena recoils like a cat doused with water. He almost expects her to hiss at him. It feels like falling back into an old habit.

"He's not _my_ boy toy," she grumbles, falling back to lay next to him.

"Don't be stupid, have you seen the way he looks at you?" It hurts a little to say it, like deliberately picking open a cut that hasn't quite scabbed over yet.

She rolls her eyes. "You're an idiot, Toto. Fyodor doesn't look at me like anything. We're just friends. And that's not what I came in here to talk to you about."

"What do you want, then?" The sooner she says what she's here to say, the sooner he can get back to -- it's not moping. Moping is undignified, and worlds away from what he does.

Elena hesitates, taking a breath. "What happened last night?" she asks, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "You two disappeared for ages, and now you're both acting strange. What's going on?"

"Nothing happened." The words come out too quick to sound natural, and Lena has always been good at seeing what he doesn't want to show her. Anatole bites his tongue. "He got drunk. I went and found him. That's the end of it." Why are they even talking about this? Is Elena onto him, somehow?

"Hmm." The look on her face says she doesn't believe him for a moment. Elena turns onto her side to face him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You know, Fyodor is a very private person. He doesn't really tell people about what he's feeling."

"I know that." Really, what is she trying to tell him? That she knows Fedya better than he ever will, that Fedya tells her the things that he won't tell anyone else? Anatole narrows his eyes but doesn't move to push her away, though he can feel a flicker of irritation. "Your point?"

She continues, undeterred by his thinly veiled annoyance. "He's not very good at telling people things that are important to him." Lena's gaze flicks from his lips up to meet his eyes, and her mouth quirks in an amused smile, as if to say, _and neither are you_. "I'm just thinking aloud here, so correct me if I'm wrong. He said something to you last night, and now you're flailing because you don't know what to do about it."

Anatole isn't going to tell her how close she is to the truth. He's not going to give her the satisfaction. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, voice cracking nervously. "Fedya and I are just friends. He's not interested in me." Too late, he realizes just how telling that defense is. Fedya might not be interested in him, but if she's paying attention, and she always is, he might have just given his own interest away.

Lena's face contorts oddly, almost like she's trying to hold in a laugh. Then her expression evens out, and she sits up to look down at him. "He's not going to wait around forever, you know. He's not that kind of man."

And that doesn't make any sense at all. What on earth does Fedya have to be waiting around for? It's him that's the inconvenience, waiting for any sign that Fedya might care. Anatole can't summon up a pithy remark, or anything at all, and Lena barrels on interminably. 

"If you're not a fool," she starts, "you'll do something about whatever this is. Or he'll move on to people who won't play around."

"Play around?" Anatole isn't even going to pretend that doesn't stir the coals of anger deep in the pit of his stomach. " _Play around_? You don't know what you're talking about. The only one playing around with Fedya is _you_ \--!" And oh, does that feel good to say. After watching Lena toy with him for close to a week now, his nerves are dangerously close to snapping, and Lena is dancing on his last one.

"Look, Toto, do you love him or not?" Lena folds her arms across her chest and watches him sputter for a moment. "If you do, fine, wonderful, get your head out of your ass and do something about it. I'll drink a toast to your health. If you don't, quit mooning like a giddy schoolboy and find someone else to play with. As things stand now, you're only going to hurt him." She stands and starts towards the door, and Anatole feels a wave of panic hit him. What must she think of him?

"Lena--"

"No," she says, without turning. "No, Toto, you're going to have to figure this one out yourself." With that, she shuts the door behind herself, leaving him with only his swirling thoughts as companions.

Does he love Fedya? He still can't get over the fact that Lena would accuse him of that so openly. She's supposed to be in love with him, isn't she? Why would she ask him something like that? It's like she's trying to goad him into an admission she can hold over his head later, and he doesn't want to fall into one of her traps.

But the question is valid, and it's one he doesn't know the answer to yet himself. He...cares about Fedya, that's certain. He stopped being able to deny that to himself ages ago. And Fedya isn't always gentle, or kind, he knows. He's a reckless idiot sometimes, and fierce, and harsh, and more than a little unyielding. That's what he shows the world, anyway. But Anatole wants to see what's underneath all that. He's been fighting for glimpses of that man for longer than he can remember. There's something gentler and softer lying beneath the surface, and he wants to draw it out, bit by bit, until it's all he can see.

Does he love Fedya? Of course he does. The realization is so easy it takes his breath away. The only question left is what he's going to do about it.

***

When he finally emerges from his room, twenty minutes later, Lena and Fedya are sitting back on the couch, playing cards. He's got a plan, Anatole thinks, a wonderful plan that will ensure Fedya will quit this nonsense with his sister, and they'll be happy. He stops short in the doorway as Fedya rolls his eyes over at his sister and she tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

His nerves have been fraying for the last week, and in that moment, his last one snaps. Anatole glares at them both, expression stormy, all thoughts of his plan vanishing in his complete fury. How dare she? What kind of hypocritical--

"Lena. Out." He doesn't remember making the decision to say it, but they both look up at him, Fedya concerned, Lena amused. She rises gracefully and shakes out her skirts, patting his shoulder before sweeping out the front door.

Leaving him to stare at Fedya, suddenly keenly aware of just what an awkward position he's in. How does he begin to explain his reaction to this?

Fedya stands, bewildered. "What is going on with you?" he asks, gesturing wildly from one side to another. "I don't understand it, we were totally fine until Helene showed up, and now you're acting like -- I don't know what it is, but I don't like it."

And that's just -- it's hilarious, is what it is, the implication that _he's_ the one acting oddly when it's Fedya who's like a completely different person these days. Anatole takes a step closer, then another, the emotion choking off all rational thought. They're terribly close, now, he thinks distantly. He could just reach out, and Fedya would be right there --

"I'm not the one getting all cozy with your sister, Fedya, really, you're all over each other, this isn't some brothel--!"

"What do you _want_ from me, Anatole--"

"I want my sister to keep her hands off you!" 

Fedya makes a bewildered sound. "You've never had a problem with your sister having her hands all over me before, Anatole, what--"

His temper snaps. "Maybe I'd rather they were my hands," he snarls. It's exploding out of his mouth before he even registers what he's saying, but the realization hits a second later, and his mouth goes dry. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and all he can think is that he's really done it now.

It's dead quiet in the room. Fedya's just staring at him, wide eyed and vulnerable, and he's not saying anything at all. Anatole feels tears welling up in his eyes, and he turns his head away, trying to conceal them. He's ruined it now, hasn't he, and now Fedya won't want anything to do with him every again. How could he have been so stupid?

"I'm sorry, I have to go," he says, humiliation rising like bile in his throat, and starts to turn, but before he can get anywhere, there's an arm around his waist pulling him to a halt. Anatole looks back over his shoulder at Fedya, but freezes to the spot. He can't breathe, and his heart feels like it's fit to burst with how fast it's racing, and Fedya still won't say anything. It would be easy to break his grip, to run and never look back, but he just can't make his legs move, can't bear the expression on Fedya's face. And it would be so easy for Fedya to break his heart. All he'd have to do is let go.

"Anatole. Look at me." Fedya pauses, seemingly lost for words, but there's a strangely soft look in his eyes Anatole is sure he's never seen there before. "Do you know what you're saying?"

He swallows hard. It's a struggle to even meet Fedya's eyes, and he feels about as far away from his usual confident self as could be possible. It's not fair that Fedya can undo him like this, with just a word, and a touch. It's the most vulnerable he's ever felt in his life, the biggest gamble he's ever made.

"Yes," he says, and once he's started, he can't stop the words from spilling out over each other in a jumbled mess. "Yes, Christ, of course, I've wanted you for years, and I'm an idiot, but I think I love you, and I don't want to let my sister anywhere near you --"

Fedya, mercifully, cuts him off by kissing him breathless. Anatole's hands come up to tangle in his hair, and his heart is racing, but the whirring cacophony of panicked thoughts has gone totally, gloriously silent.

After a moment, he pulls away, finding with surprise that one of Fedya's arms is around his hips, keeping him close, and they're both flushed. Anatole looks down at his feet. What if it's all some trick, what if Fedya doesn't want him at all?

Then there's a hand on his cheek, tilting his head up, and Fedya is looking at him with wide, worried eyes. "Anatole? I don't -- what's wrong?"

His heart is aching just looking at him, at how sincere he looks. Anatole takes a breath. "What are you getting out of this?"

Somehow, miraculously, Fedya understands. His brow furrows, and he tugs Anatole a little closer, until there's no space between them at all. "You, idiot," he says gently, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. "That's all I want."

Anatole feels a smile growing on his face to match Fedya's. Somehow, against all odds, Fedya wants him, and him alone, not his family, his money, connections. It's more than he ever thought possible. "Fedya?" he murmurs, scanning his face. "I think you should kiss me again."

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo hoo hoo
> 
> hee hee hee


	10. epilogue

It's an hour later, when Helene finally returns to the Petersburg house, caught between amusement and worry. Either they've killed each other, and her problems are solved by their inability to moon over each other anymore, or they've somehow figured things out, in which case she also wins. Though in that case, she's probably out of a living arrangement.

Ah, well. The sacrifices she makes for her brother.

Helene pauses in front of the door, gaze catching on a cream covered envelope tucked under the knocker. Her brother's stationery, she thinks, and his handwriting. His death is looking less and less likely. She tears open the envelope and unfolds the sheet of paper inside, scanning the words with considerably increasing amusement.

_Sweet sister,_

_Ha, ha. I win._

Then, abruptly, it switches over to Dolokhov's more cramped handwriting. She can almost see Anatole's pout of annoyance at having this snatched away from him.

_As much as we appreciate your interference, and as much as it was, and I shudder to say it, helpful, you may want to go back to Moscow. I don't think either of us will be fit for entertaining company for the next week, at least._

Helene folds the letter back up and looks up at the windows of the house. It had been a risk, doing this, she thinks. But when all is said and done, isn't the risk worth the reward? Helene looks up at the windows, laughs, and turns back towards Moscow.

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another item to add to the long list of things that were done while I should have been studying.


End file.
